i wish there was a word like goodbye for someone who was already gone
by possibilist
Summary: 'My grandmother died," she whispers roughly, and you hug her to you tightly and then back up again so you can see her face. She tries to calm down, you can tell, because she steels herself, but it's not convincing in the slightest.' Megan takes care of Santana when they go back to Lima for her grandmother's funeral. lots of faberry as well.


['My grandmother died," she whispers roughly, and you hug her to you tightly and then back up again so you can see her face. She tries to calm down, you can tell, because she steels herself, but it's not convincing in the slightest.' Megan takes care of Santana when they go back to Lima for her grandmother's funeral.]

* * *

**i wish there was a word that meant goodbye for someone who was already gone (i wish i didn't need to know)**

**.**

_in the end, it wasn't death that surprised her but the stubbornness of life.  
_—jeffrey eugendies, _the virgin suicides_

…

"Shhhh," you hear Quinn say when you answer your phone. You hear Santana sniffling in the background and it shoots this pain through your abdomen, clenching and rocking.

"Quinn?"

"Hey Megan," she says, and sometimes Quinn sounds weary, but usually not like this, not because of other people. "Are you at the restaurant?"

"Yeah," you say.

"Okay," Quinn says. "We're okay and Santana got some news she doesn't really want to tell you over the phone but we're okay, Megan."

You hear Quinn hail a cab and you sit down on the desk in your office and take a few deep breaths. "We'll be there soon," Quinn says. "Promise promise."

They're there quickly, and you figure they were having lunch between Santana's office and Quinn's classes, and Santana is trying really, really hard not to cry. You've seen her cry before, many times, over you and over Quinn, mostly, and one time where she was helping you cook and burnt the inside of her arm on spaghetti sauce.

But you've not seen her like this.

She's squeezing Quinn's hand hard but when she sees you she rockets into your arms. "Baby," you say softly, and her suit is rumpled and she sticks her snotty nose into your shoulder.

Quinn stands sort of awkwardly, although you tell her very quietly, "Thank you," because you know she handled Santana's initial reaction quickly and deftly enough to get her here to you without anything terrible or catastrophic happening. In the years you've been together Santana has matured immensely, but she is still the fiercest person you know. Which is why you love her, among so many other things.

Quinn nods tersely, and you're familiar with her brave face—you've heard stories about Quinn in high school, and you've watched her at lectures and readings a handful of times, so you know when she slips back into the chin-up, jaw-clenched, back-straight _Quinn Fabray_.

You tuck some of Santana's hair behind her ear and stroke her cheek gently so she meets your eyes. You kiss her as softly as you can and she tastes like salt, and her chin trembles.

"My grandmother died," she whispers roughly, and you hug her to you tightly and then back up again so you can see her face. She tries to calm down, you can tell, because she steels herself, but it's not convincing in the slightest.

You look away from her briefly when Rachel storms into the restaurant then, tousled from the wind and in workout clothes, sweaty from what you figure was choreography in her latest workshop. She sees Santana but goes to Quinn instead, because Santana's entire body is pressed against yours, and Rachel looks incredibly worried. Rachel and Quinn, since you've known them, have this astonishing physical understanding between one another, and Quinn angles her body a bit toward Rachel and quickly lifts a hand and swipes her thumb across Rachel's lower lip, and Rachel visibly calms. "Santana's grandmother passed away," Quinn says lowly, and Rachel's mouth forms into a silent _oh _before she nods quickly, and when she does Santana starts crying again.

You let her cry for a bit and then she straightens with this hollow laugh that makes you feel sick, and she says, "God, I'm sorry for being such a mess," and Rachel and Quinn look just as confused as you, but Santana goes over to Rachel and they share a tight hug before Santana walks back over to you, composure always completely regained. Usually Santana legitimately _is _composed and she's actually one of the most emotionally healthy people you know—albeit it took her a little while to get here—but this is something you recognize you'll have to deal with for a long time.

You've met Santana's parents—who are absolutely wonderful, and as you've been with Santana longer and longer, they seem to love you more because Santana has grown with you immensely—but you never met her grandmother. Santana, on drunk occasion, would tell you stories about her childhood, how she can cook better Mexican food than you ever could because her grandmother taught her, how her grandmother took her get ice-cream every Thursday when they spent time together after school while both her parents were working. You know, from practiced, careful drunk prodding, that her grandmother was one of the most special people in Santana's life, and you also know that when Santana had come out to her grandmother, she had refused to accept or even really tolerate her sexuality, and nothing about that had really ever changed.

Santana takes a few deep breaths—in some weird moment you're reminded inextricably of Bette Porter, although that's generally reserved for some of Quinn's particular brand of bad days—and she says, "Her funeral"—her voice catches on the word and she clears her throat—"is on Saturday, and I'd like to help my mother with the arrangements."

"Okay, baby," you say, and you take her hand, and she squeezes once.

.

You pack one suitcase. Quinn and Rachel are coming too because you can tell they're both worried about Santana, and they'd also, you remind yourself, because they seem like they've been in New York forever, grown up there. Quinn seems remarkably uncomfortable with the idea—you've never been to Lima; whenever you spent time with Santana's parents it was always on vacation or if they visited the city—but you know enough to know that it's, in so many ways, a ghost town.

Santana sits numbly on your bed in one of your t-shirts and a pair of cotton boyshorts while you grab one of your modest black dresses from the closet and then pick one for her. They're already in garment bags, so you don't really have anything to do, because you'd already put jeans and sweaters—it's October, so you don't really know what the weather will be like there—into a suitcase. You have a few hours before you need to be at the airport, and you don't think Santana's slept or eaten or cried since yesterday. You sit down next to her and she takes your hand without glancing up, plays with your engagement ring.

You rub your thumb back and forth along the top of her hand and eventually move so you're scratching lightly along the back of her neck up into her hair. She sighs a little into you but her muscles don't really relax at all. She'd lied completely rigid against you last night—and you really hadn't slept much either—and she's said a few words sparingly but, compared to normal Santana, she's been almost silent.

You stand up and she follows quietly, stiffly. You lead her to the kitchen and you make eggs and bacon, and she stands there in the middle of the room like she doesn't quite know what to do. You don't either, you've never dealt with Santana literally at a _loss_, but you know things that comfort you, and you know to give them back.

You get her to eat two fried eggs and two pieces of bacon on the couch with you while watching PBS News, which strangely seems to be her favorite program—you chalk it up to Santana being both very liberal and very much seriously invested in her profession—and when you're finished you take both plates and do the dishes quickly before tugging her shirt off and leading her toward the bathroom. You turn the shower on—your apartment together is beautiful; you have a fully free-standing shower, and sure, you'd splurged a little on the whole place, but you're both making plenty of money—and pull down her underwear, then take your clothes off, leave them in a pile on the floor.

You kiss Santana gently in the shower, with no pretense for anything else, and she kisses you back for a long time. You massage shampoo through her hair—it's getting so long—and then kiss her again. "I love you," she says, very softly, and it makes you smile just slightly.

You get dressed without much fanfare—Santana wears leggings and riding boots and a blazer, and you opt for jeans and flats and one of your favorite cashmere sweaters. You call a cab and take the suitcase down while Santana shoulders an oversized purse with Rachel Maddow's new book inside of it—and yes, you had picked it up a few days ago as a present for Santana and you were going to wait for a little while to give to her, just to frustrate her a little bit, but it seemed like a better distraction now—and climb into the cab. Santana leans her head against your shoulder and laces your hands together. She's wearing one of your coats, but you know it's one of her favorites, and it smells like her by now.

You kiss the side of her head and the city crawls by.

.

Rachel and Quinn are already at the gate once you get through security. You've been in plenty of elevators with Quinn—it's New York—so you've seen very limited glimpses of her claustrophobia, but currently she's a little high, you can tell, because she's had a Xanax, Rachel explains in apology, before Quinn smiles at both of you crookedly.

Surprisingly, though, Santana legitimately grins back, and she sits down next to Quinn, who starts talking about how she'd boxed a lot last night, and then she shows Santana her right hand—two cracked and scabbed knuckles and all—before saying, "Rachel was worried because, you know, she sort of loves my hands. And my mouth, of course, but everything still works just fine because we definitely had se—"

"Quinn," Rachel says quickly, putting her hand over Quinn's mouth before pulling it away in a flash and wiping it on her jeans with disdain.

"Usually you like when I lick your—"

"Oh my god," Rachel says. "Baby, stop."

Santana glances at you with a very real smile, and she relaxes into your side.

Quinn is poking Rachel in the side in an effort to get a kiss, and Rachel rolls her eyes with a reluctant smile before kissing Quinn softly and shortly.

Quinn's lipstick smudges across Rachel's lips, and she starts laughing again, and then Rachel does too, wiping her mouth, and then you feel Santana laugh briefly, and you kiss the top of her head and make a note to thank Quinn and Rachel later, for everything.

.

Quinn falls asleep messily before the plane even takes off and Rachel gets out her script and silently mouths words. Santana looks at them fondly before leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes.

She holds your hand hard.

.

You land in Columbus on time a few hours later, and Quinn is groggy but Santana wakes up with lighter circles under her eyes, and she swallows a few times before taking a deep breath and kissing you, the first real kiss you've had since yesterday, then palms your cheek softly with a smile.

Quinn is sort of tripping over her feet with a frazzled, amused Rachel trying to direct her coherently to baggage, where Santana's parents are waiting. Santana's eyes shimmer and you steel yourself, but then she pulls herself together remarkably and gives them hugs. They hug you too, as well as Quinn and Rachel, and Victor grabs your suitcase with a gentle smile before you can even reach for it. Rachel takes their suitcase out to the car while you and Santana keep an eye on Quinn, who seems a bit more coordinated at this point, but not remarkably so.

Everyone shoots Rachel a strangely grateful glance when she starts rambling about her new workshop, because no one quite knows what to say.

Then Victor turns on the radio, and Rachel gets Santana and Quinn to sing an old Katy Perry song with her, and then Quinn falls asleep again and Santana tells a story of a funny snafu at work involving interns and coffee, of course, and you skim your hand over the small scar on the inside of her forearm from when she burnt herself in the kitchen.

Things get quiet and it's stifling with sadness in the Lopez's SUV, but then Quinn wakes up and dazedly starts telling Rachel, in a very, very loud stage whisper, about how she knows she's vegetarian most days but sometimes she just _really _wants bacon, and Rachel giggles fondly. You can't help it and you start laughing too, and, just like that, you make it to Lima without anything collapsing in on itself.

.

You drop Rachel and Quinn off at their hotel first—both of their parents had moved back east years ago, and they don't want to impose on the Lopez's—before you go back to Santana's childhood home. She stiffens when you pull into the driveway but then climbs out of the car easily and grabs the suitcase before her father can.

"Are you hungry?" Maribel asks. "We have plenty of casseroles but I can cook something too, if you want."

You defer to Santana on this one, because you know she really should eat soon but when your uncle had died when you were twenty-four you remember throwing up twice after trying to eat.

Santana says, "Maybe some water for now. I'll have dinner later, Mama."

You nod and thank Maribel, and you follow Santana up the stairs, trying your best to be appropriate and not stare at her ass the entire time, but, goddamn, it's a great ass and you are still very human, after all.

You look around as subtly as you can, because it seems like her parents hadn't really changed her room much at all, and it makes you smile a little because sometimes it's hard for you to imagine Santana as young as fifteen or sixteen, because she is one of the most protective people you've known, in the best way.

But her childhood bedroom has soft pink checkered trim, and there's a teddy bear on her bed, and you know that here, you can hold Santana into a very small infinity.

.

Santana eats, unsurprisingly, four deviled eggs and a handful of chips for "dinner" before she sits down with her dad and he turns on the news. It immediately makes you smile because they both lean forward slightly, tilt their heads.

You smile gently at Maribel and she rubs your back once while you help her organize all of the food she's received lately into the limited freezer space.

"Has she cried yet?" she asks you.

"When she first found out, yes," you say, "but not since then."

Maribel nods, then pauses and looks at you very seriously. "You are absolutely wonderful for her, Megan, and if she lashes out on you, remember that. Santana is my baby but she's not good at feeling hurt."

This you know, at least hypothetically, from Rachel's stories about Quinn and Santana in high school. They're amusing now, because Quinn and Santana still bicker like four year olds but it's always in jest.

"I don't ever plan on leaving," you tell Maribel.

She nods and gently squeezes your hand. Santana looks just like her.

.

You go to bed relatively early because Santana looks exhausted and she doesn't protest when you kiss the shell of her ear and tug her up from the couch.

She strips once you're in her room without hesitation, and for a few seconds you imagine teenaged Santana's shaky hands and brave eyes.

She kisses you emphatically, and she says, "I love you more than I've loved anyone, Megan."

You kiss her again, and when she reaches her hands under your shirt, you let her touch all the skin she needs.

.

Thankfully, you think slightly guiltily, there's no wake and the funeral itself is closed-casket. It's in late morning, in this imposing Catholic church. Quinn and Rachel show up just after you do, and Quinn looks vaguely uncomfortable here, although the only way you can tell is Rachel's constant hand on the small of her back. You don't know too many details about Quinn's childhood, and you know she was Lutheran, not Catholic, but you can certainly guess that churches in general might not be the most comfortable places for her. Santana goes to church on Christmas and Easter if you're in New York, but in general you spend Sundays sleeping in and having lots of languid morning sex, then having brunch before you walk around Central Park and then do your grocery shopping for the week together.

The entire thing seems really somber, and you don't know whose jaw is clenched tighter, Santana's or Quinn's, and you share a glance with Rachel.

She's in a black dress but Quinn is in an impeccably tailored black suit, and you gesture toward it and say, "Well we obviously needed a power lesbian representative in this place."

Rachel laughs quietly and kisses Quinn's shoulder, and Quinn blushes but smiles gently, and Santana's body drains a little of its rigidity and she says, "Quinn was always the gayest anyway."

.

The service itself doesn't really take too long. There's a lot of Bible verses and a lot of holy water and a lot of the cyclical nature of life and death stuff, but nothing condemning toward anyone.

The graveside ceremony lacks and pomp or circumstance, and you expect, for some reason, that it'll be rainy, drab.

But it's sunny, not a cloud in sight, and Santana places a white carnation on the top of the casket before walking away.

You follow, and she stands by a tree before telling you, "I just wanted her to love me."

"San," you whisper, "baby, she did love you."

She kind of violently hugs you then, tightly and slightly unsteadily. She still doesn't cry.

.

There are, apparently, a lot of people they all know at the reception back at the Lopez's house. Most of them seem much more surprised and much more displeased about Rachel and Quinn than they do about you and Santana, and you watch Quinn get physically weary. Santana goes to sit next to her for a little while, and there's not really enough room on the couch for you to sit down too so instead you walk behind it and run your fingers through Quinn's hair briefly before going to restock the cookie tray.

Rachel is in the kitchen, back turned, leaning against the counter with both hands pressed into the edge. When she hears you come in she sniffles and then turns around.

"I hate this place too but—they both really tried to die here, I think."

You know she means Lima and you know she means so many of Santana's demons and Quinn's demons and all of the shadows you've noticed in Santana's eyes.

You hug Rachel close, and you don't say anything because there's not really anything to say.

After a while she dries her tears and you both straighten up. They're the most important people in your life, the three of them, your family, and you nod at Rachel and then start laying cookies on the tray carefully, so they don't break.

.

After the reception you all help clean up, and it seems like everyone is just trying to stay busy as much as possible.

After a while, everything is cleaned up, though, and Rachel and Quinn leave with hugs and kisses to go nap back at their hotel.

Santana puts on _The Exorcist_, which you don't even have enough energy to really read into other than that Santana loves horror films, and you end up falling asleep together on the couch. You wake up after about an hour, and Santana is gone.

You walk up to her room, and she's sitting there angrily packing your suitcase.

She turns to you, eyes shining, and says, "Why the _hell _did you bring so much of our fucking shit?"

You have a moment where it pisses you off—although it's very fleeting because this is Santana lashing out in hurt and even though it's very rare, this is not the first time it's happened; logically you know you only packed one suitcase so this is completely irrational, too—and you walk over to her gently and take the pair of underwear she's currently clenching in her fists out of her hands gently.

Santana grinds her teeth, breath coming in short bursts, before she says, "I need to get out of here."

You nod and follow her down the stairs and take the keys to her mother's sedan from her hand almost immediately, because no way in hell is Santana driving right now, and listen to her quick, punctuated directions. It's getting dark and the temperature is dropping outside, you can tell, and you're at a very unremarkable intersection—residential, fields, stop sign—when Santana tells you to pull over.

She gets out of the car in a flash and walks to the front, leaning against the hood. You go to stand next to her and she says, "This is where Quinn's car accident happened," she says hollowly.

The breath seems to whoosh from your lungs, because you have no idea what to do.

Santana's still, and you wait.

She looks toward the ditch on the other side of the road and says, "There's probably still some glass there," and then you see a few tears roll down her cheeks silently. "Eleven years ago and there's still all this brokenness and—" A real sob works its way out, and then she turns to you and her voice cracks when she says, "I don't want the people I love to leave."

"Honey," you whisper, and you take her into your arms. She weeps, rocks back and forth, chest expanding and contracting almost frantically, and you cry softly and silently into her hair.

It's probably the most human you've ever been.

"I'm not going anywhere," you promise quietly, even though you have no way of guaranteeing that.

Santana's quiet and still for so long you think it might've been the wrong thing to say, but then she lifts her head from your shoulder and says, "Thank you," into your mouth before kissing you with more ache than you've ever known.

.

You're not surprised when you end up driving to William McKinley High School and Santana laces her fingers with yours and leads you to the bleachers by the football field, and you're even less surprised when you see Rachel and Quinn lying down in the middle of the grass.

Santana is quiet and still for a while before she walks toward them, pulling you with her.

None of them really acknowledge one another, but Quinn reaches for Santana's hand when she lays down beside her.

You all watch the stars for a while—you can see far more here than in the city, and they're beautiful—and then Santana roughly says, "You always were Kirsten Dunst angsty but who would've guessed Berry would be your Harnett."

You all laugh when Rachel just says, "Berry-Fabray, Santana."

Despite having watched it just a few months ago, you remember _The Virgin Suicides _in this ambient, aimless fog—all blonde hair and clutched hands and floating white dresses.

It reminds you of Quinn, but none of it reminds you of Santana, next to you with her dark hair and sharp smile and black jeans.

You don't know exactly how much silent, drifting time passes but then Quinn softly says, "The zipper opened all the way down our spines."

It's silent a few beats before Rachel says, "We're all much too alive for that analysis, baby."

You catch Santana smile out of the corner of your eye before sitting up and saying, "We're going to go back to my house."

Quinn nods and Rachel says, "See you tomorrow at the airport."

You glance back at Quinn and Rachel once as you walk toward Santana's car.

You wrap your arm around Santana's shoulder and she snakes hers around your waist, and everything orbits again a bit more steadily, clearer, less frantic.

.

That night you make love to Santana softly, quietly, in her childhood bedroom, and when she comes with these quiet, big tears, you tell her, "I'm in love with you forever," and she nods because you know she hasn't words for this, and you fall asleep banishing ghosts, hurling them out of this bright, clear world, your hand tucked into hers, feet still solidly on the ground.


End file.
